ThirtySeven
by singingstarryknights
Summary: And, like a thin pane of glass, everything shattered. NOT FLUFF. WIP. DL.
1. Chapter 1

Thirty-Seven

…

And, like a thin pane of glass, everything shattered.

…

NOT THE USUAL FLUFF

…

A challenge to myself… Trying to break out of the lighthearted, romantic stuff I usually write. It's ultimately romantic, I'm physically incapable of straying from that, but it is decidedly anti-lighthearted.

…

She remembered the jingle of keys. Sifting through her keychain, fingers searching for the key to her apartment. Jingling keys. Car. Lab. Locker. Apartment.

Black.

She struggled; something was pushing against her shoulders, pining her to the carpet. Carpet? Searing, white-hot pain, throbbing. Grunting. Sweat.

She winced, slowly registering the weight moving erratically on top of her, shoving her torso roughly against the fibers in the carpet, turning her back raw with uneven pressure. A thick hand struck her jaw, flattening her features into the floor, gaining a sharp angle of leverage, rendering her motionless. She kicked out, the inside of her thigh coming into contact with a leg. Another hand shot out, pushing her leg away, and thrusting her knee abruptly to the floor, dislocating her hip with a paralyzing pop, leaving her leg limp as she screamed, rolling her eyes back as the burning pressure in her pelvis increased, causing her body to ricochet between the body trapping her, and the cheap, dirty carpet she was trapped against. Somewhere, across the room, she recognized the delicate ring of her cell phone.

Something was not right. This wasn't right. Lindsay squirmed, almost fainting from the shot of pain from her hip. The thick fingers lifted off her jaw for a moment, coming down against her cheek again, delivering a numbing slap, and shoving her face against the carpet further.

"Oh no you don't. Tryin'a fuckin' look at my face." His voice was gruff, thick with a New Jersey accent that she vaguely recognized, but hadn't been in the city long enough to identify. New Jersey. His tone was filled with revulsion, his sweat dripping onto her stomach and chest, smelling of anger and alcohol.

This wasn't Danny.

Danny wasn't this hard. Rough. Unrelenting. Dominant.

Danny would never hurt her, and this man; this man had dislocated her hip.

He was inside her, whoever he was. Oh God. Lindsay concentrated on relaxing her angry muscles, in an attempt to lessen the intensity of the pain. She opened one eye, groaning silently as the synthetic carpet fibers scratched at her cornea. Blue. The carpet was blue. Baby blue, faded with wear, dirty with neglect. She blinked away the tears that had watered in her eye, trying to focus on what else was in her line of sight. Blue carpet. She squinted, searching around the room, trying to ignore the rocking and the groaning and the pain.

God, the pain.

Forensics. Descriptions. Forensics. Think.

She stared determinedly at the far wall, waiting for it to come into focus, fending off the effects of what she calculated as a moderate concussion. There was no way she could overcome the man thrusting into her, the muscle he had shone by manhandling her body would clearly overtake her abilities, they were honed carefully, trained thoroughly, but at the end of the day, she still only weighed 116 pounds.

She'd have to get him with the forensics.

The dark of the wall slowly came into focus, enabling her to make out the decay of crusted lead paint and archaic wood paneling popular circa 1968. A worn out armchair. A window, curtains pulled shut. A television, an early eighties model with crooked rabbit ears, like the one her aunt had in the kitchen on the farm. Lindsay strained, tilting her head away from the man on top of her, squinting to make sense of a potential reflection on the tube. A door. There was a door to her left, behind her. Water stains on the ceiling. Multistory building. The light was shining in from the street, through the moth holes in the curtains, at an upward angle. Third floor, second floor. She could be anywhere in New York. Her cell phone rang again, and beeped once. Voicemail.

Fingernails. She balled the fingers of one hand slowly, glancing down in that general direction, wincing as the pressure increased on her skull and her ribcage. Her fingertips were bleeding. No. There was blood under her nails. Good. Even if he was using a condom, she'd have a DNA sample.

"Not so tough now, huh? Badge is worth shit, now." He grunted, grabbing her hips roughly and lifting them, jostling her hip unceremoniously, yanking her body toward him, slamming into her at a new angle, bringing tears to her eyes that blurred her vision, preventing her from visually analyzing the room. He slowed finally, rocking in a staccato rhythm accentuated with hoarse grunting, before she felt the heavy trickle of him leaking into her. No condom.

Her heart shattered abruptly, and with a wave of pain across her face, everything, again, became black.


	2. Chapter 2

Danny Messer carried the box of evidence in the Hadler case back to the evidence vault, signing his name in the box to the far right of the sheet, and sliding it into the cabinet, securing the door. He was having a good day. A good week. Four criminals locked up in as many shifts. He ran his hand over his short hair, making it spike nonchalantly as he made his way to the locker room, the case already fading from his thoughts as he remembered what was waiting for him at home. Lindsay had caught a snag in her case, and, at Mac's suggestion, had gone home about an hour ago. She had kissed him, smiled sweetly, and promised to make her way to his apartment after a hot shower and some clean clothes.

A half hour later, he shoved his key into the lock and turned it, swinging open the door of his apartment. Glancing around for any sign of her, and finding none immediately, he pushed the heavy door back into place in the doorjamb, and tossed his keys in the bowl by the door.

"Linds? You here?" He shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of the couch. "Lindsay?" He frowned, checking the kitchen, the bedroom, and finally the bathroom, before shrugging. She must still be at her place. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it in the hamper, rummaging through his drawer, and extracting a Wagner College baseball tee shirt, slipping it over his head, pairing it with the broken in jeans he had worn to work. He gave the photos on top of the dresser a fleeting look, the images he saw making him smile broadly.

His roommate from college had taken a bunch of them, after starting his own portrait studio. Black and white prints in sleek black frames, proof that even when the world looked like it had dissolved into nothing but ugly hatred and vile actions, they still had something to live for. They had worn plain tee shirts, his black, hers white, and jeans, like Mikey had asked. One print showed the two of them laughing, over what, he couldn't remember. Taken from across the room, Lindsay had wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, covering her mouth in a fit of giggles, as he ran his fingers along her thigh, where she was seated, straddling his lap.

The second shot was closer, Lindsay lying flat on her back, throwing him a completely scandalized look as he hovered over her, touching his nose to hers. She had leaned up and kissed him after that shot was taken, long, hard, full of want. It was that moment that he had fallen the rest of the way in love with her, and he was forever thankful it had been caught on film. The last shot was a close up; Lindsay had removed his glasses just before it had been taken; he was giving her his best 'tough guy New Yorker' look, and she was trying her hardest not to laugh.

She had made him feel like Joey Tribbiani instead of Michael Corleone.

He smiled; running a hand over his eyes and flicking the light switch off in the bedroom, making his way out to the kitchen, intent on starting dinner. Him and Lindsay, they were going to be okay. He glanced at the clock, frowning, and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, pressing a number on the speed dial. He wasn't overly concerned when his call went straight to her voicemail. He set about constructing dinner, switching on the Yankees game and choreographing his preparations to the commentary of the announcers. It was because of Lindsay he knew how to use his oven at all. She had turned making Chicken Parm into foreplay, and to this day, months later, he still couldn't eat Italian without fighting off a wave of arousal. This posed several pertinent issues, being of Italian descent.

Three hours later, she still hadn't shown up. After leaving his fourth voicemail on her cell phone, he pulled the zipper of a sweatshirt up, turned off the oven, and grabbed his badge and his gun on his way out. Something felt wrong. He tumbled down the stairs of his building with practiced perfection, pulling his cell phone as it rang shrilly.

"Messer."

"Hi, Daniel Messer?"

"Yeah that's me."

"This is Dr. Gordon at Trinity Hospital ER." Danny stopped short in his tracks, panic shooting through him in a hot flash of sweat. "We admitted a Lindsay Monroe about an hour ago, you are listed as her- "

"Jesus Christ, is she okay?" The pause in the nurse's soothing voice did nothing to relieve the erratic beating of his broken heart.

"Ms. Monroe is stable now, yes. We're expecting a full recovery."

"Recovery from what? Can I talk to her? What happened?"

"She's asleep now, but-"

"I'm on my way."


	3. Chapter 3

Somewhere she heard his voice. She wondered vaguely why he was so far away. Why he wasn't calling her 'Montana.' Why he spoke with tears in his throat.

"Lindsay."

She had left him in the lab, he was going to come right home.

"Linds."

She frowned, finding the urgency in his voice irritating. What was he worried about? She was right here. Where here was, she wasn't quite sure, it didn't feel like her bed, or his. It couldn't have been all that bad, though, they were together.

"_Lindsay_."

Maybe she should just open her eyes. Slowly, Danny's tear-stained features came into focus. She curved a corner of her mouth into a trace of a smile, wondering what on earth could have made Danny cry.

"Hey." He sounded less persistent, the timbre of his voice softened to that soothing quality it held that time she couldn't hold anything down. Sick and bedridden for three days. They had thought she was pregnant. _That_ was bust. She relaxed, feeling his hand push back a strand of hair, and smiled carefully when she felt his fingers tighten around hers, near her hip. "How are you feeling?"

"Cold." Her answer came out in a hoarse whisper. She glanced around tiredly, beyond him, seeing nothing coming into focus. Cold. Bleak. Oh God. "Please tell me we aren't in Fargo." She was being serious, but Danny broke into a genuine grin, and pressed a kiss to her forehead before chuckling softly.

"I guess you'll be alright then. Barely conscious thirty seconds and you're crackin' North Dakota jokes." She frowned, wondering where exactly they were, if not in Fargo. His features sobered quickly, and he rubbed his thumb along her wrist companionably. He signaled to a police officer in the hall before turning back to her. "You're at Trinity." She watched him pause, giving a considerable effort to not let the tears spill out from the corners of his eyes. Across the hall, a nurse shifted through her keys to unlock the drug cabinet.

Jingle.

Keys.

"I couldn't get my keys in the door." His gaze snapped up to hers.

"What happened?" She frowned, trying to remember. Black. Keys. Nothing. She couldn't remember anything.

"I dropped my keys." She squeezed his fingers.

"What do you remember? Try." Danny's eyes instantly misted over, and she felt her heart break, through the thin cotton of the hospital gown.

"My throat is sore." Lindsay frowned, touching along her neck gently with her free hand, gingerly. She shifted, but her muscles protested faster than Danny's supportive hand, screaming angrily at her everywhere.

Pop.

She remembered the pop.

Lindsay acquiesced when Danny urged her to lay still, content to not agitate the pain.

"My hip." She unwound her fingers from his grasp, laying her hand along his jaw instead, taking comfort when he pressed a kiss to the heel of her palm, feeling him explain her injuries.

"They had to pop it back into place. You dislocated it."

"_He_ dislocated it." She answered quickly, wincing as she remembered her knee being shoved into the carpet.

Carpet.

Blue. New Jersey.

"Lindsay, we ran-"

"The carpet was blue." She cut him off, blinking away the tears that blurred her vision.

"The hospital ran a rape kit-"

"Stop." She pushed him away a few inches, ignoring the dejected expression on his face. "The carpet was blue." He nodded, sniffling gruffly. If she wanted to give her statement, he was going to have to listen to it.

"Light blue, dark blue?"

"Faded. Old. Dirty. Cheap." Danny bit his lip as he concentrated on fighting off a need to hit something and the need to cry. He looked up to see the detective from Special Victims slip into her room, silently taking out his pad and a pen, and began scribbling furiously.

"What else? What did he look like, Linds?" He reached up, pushing a wavy curl out of her eyes gently before taking her hand in his.

"Heavy. I kicked, but he." She stopped, and he watched in horror as fresh tears burst into her eyes. "He pushed my knee to the floor. Oh God." She winced, her free hand tenderly feeling her abdomen. "It burned." She turned her head to the side, catching his gaze steadily, her voice a hoarse whisper. "That's how I knew it wasn't you." Danny coughed out a sob, pressing a kiss to her fingers. "You tell me you love me, you whisper in my ear. You listen to me breathe." She inhaled deeply. "You look me in the eye, you smile at me." She coughed, wincing. "This man was none of that."

"D'you remember anything else about the room, Detective Monroe?" For the first time, Lindsay acknowledged the other detective's presence. Danny watched as she frowned in concentration. "Anything at all."

"Wood paneling. Lead paint. Green." Lindsay's features shifted into a hardened expression that Danny recognized as the one she wore when working a scene, interviewing suspects and witnesses. She closed her eyes, trying to see the room. "There was a TV near the window, at least twenty years old. Broken rabbit ears."

"What about the window?"

"The curtains were drawn, but the light came in anyway."

"Day, night?"

"Streetlight." She turned her head back to Danny, gripping his fingers tightly. "What were the results from the rape kit?"

"Linds-" He hadn't wanted to tell her. He wasn't ready, but she cut him off.

"Danny. What did the doctors find?" He bit his lip, momentarily, blinking his eyes shut at her persistence. "Danny."

_"The rape kit came back positive for sperm in the vaginal cavity. We were able to pop her hip back into its socket, it's going to be sore for a few weeks, but she'll regain full motion. There was a considerable amount of tearing, and it will take a considerable amount of time to heal." Lindsay's doctor spoke quietly, his careful eye trained on the young detective standing in front of him._

_"She's going to be okay?" He cleared his throat, rubbing at his reddened eyes, gaze fixated on the sleeping form of his girlfriend._

_"She'll make a full recovery. There are defensive wounds along her forearms and hands. No telling how big the assailant was, but she must have put up a pretty good fight."_

_"She's pretty tough."_

"The rape kit came back positive, viable DNA, Jane's running it through CODIS, it wasn't a match to the epithelial we collected from your fingernails, that sample is running as well. We've handed the case to Special Victims, they've cleared their desks." Danny nodded toward the detective on the other side of the bed.

"I'll just run this to the precinct." Danny nodded, watching as the other detective slipped out of the room and down the hall. "We'll be in touch."

"What did the doctor tell you?" Her voice was small, weary, scared, and his heart shattered all over again. "_Tell_ me." The urgency in her voice brought his gaze to match hers, and she squeezed his fingers.

"He said it was real bad, tearing at 5, 6, and 7 o'clock-"

"I tried to relax." Lindsay's voice hitched, and she squeezed her eyes shut. "I tried to minimize the damage."

"There was nothing you could have done, Linds."

"My chest hurts."

"Doctor said three broken ribs on the left, and a one cracked on the right." Danny spoke quietly, focusing on making his voice steady.

"He was pushing me down. Keeping leverage." She sighed, looking up at the ceiling morosely. "Tell me this is all some twisted nightmare." Her words came out as a whisper, and the tears rolling down her cheeks glistened in the sterile lighting, identical to his.

"I can't do that, Linds. I'm sorry." His voice cracked under the weight of his emotions. Her hand searched out his, and he wrapped his fingers tightly around hers. "Get some sleep." His voice was soft, and it soothed her.

"Will you stay?" She turned her head on the pillow to face him, her expression telling him she was not quite finished being afraid. He leaned up, pressing the lightest of kisses against her temple, and nodded.

"I'm right here." He tried in vain to make his voice steady, lay on the tough Staten Island accent, trying to provide an ounce of normalcy in this string of nightmares.


	4. Chapter 4

Hours later, Lindsay was released from the hospital, into Danny's care. He pulled up into the parking area of his apartment, easing her out of the passenger seat despite her protests. They made their way up the flight of stairs slowly, with Danny's hand along the small of her back, ensuring she didn't fall. They paused a moment at his door, and he winced as he fumbled with his keys, unintentionally clanging them together in a metallic jingling sound. He pushed open the door, letting her enter the apartment first, closing the door securely behind them. He dropped his wallet, his keys, and his badge on the table beside the door, watching her carefully.

She grimaced, easing out of her coat, shying away from him when he moved to help her.

"I-I'm okay." She draped her coat over the back of his couch, holding the cushion for support as she slowly kicked her shoes off her feet, losing three inches of height. She turned to him, frowning as if trying to come up with an explanation that wouldn't damage his ego. He shook his head, dismissing it, and offered her a tired smile. "I'm just sore." It was a weak excuse, but it was the truth.

"I'll run you a bath. Relax some of those muscles a bit." Danny cleared his throat, turning to head off down the hall, running a hand through his hair, spiking it up casually as he disappeared into the bathroom. Lindsay sighed heavily, methodically unbuttoning her oxford shirt to reveal the camisole she had worn to work that morning. Easing it cautiously off her shoulders, she caught a glance of the fine bruising that had begun to develop along her chest. Instantly her eyes watered, and she pulled her shirt back over her shoulders, not wanting to expose her injuries to Danny. It was enough to put him over the edge, and he was dangling on an exposed root to begin with. Hastily, she wiped at her tears, willing them not to fall as she listened to the rhythmic gurgling of the water spilling into the tub.

She padded down the hall, her bare feet failing to make any noise as she came to lean against the doorway of his bathroom. He sat on the edge of his tub, rubbing his forehead in a worried, troubled manner, watching the water fill. He held his hand over the surface, turning it over slowly in the steam that was filtering up, before testing the temperature of the water coming out of the faucet. Lindsay folded her arms carefully over her stomach, resting her wavy curls against the worn wood of the doorjamb. Before her, Danny was struggling with her assault, struggling with himself, his feelings; but mostly, struggling to keep himself together for her. She would have smiled if it didn't hurt so much.

He must have felt her standing there, because he turned, casting her a sheepish trace of a smile, like he didn't want her to see him like that. Didn't want her to know that he could break as well. He pushed the thin frames of his glasses further up his nose, and stood, biting his lip, trying to decide whether he should leave and give her privacy, or help her into the tub. She took a few steps closer, offering him a weary smile in thanks.

"There's, um. Bubble stuff's under the cabinet. From, ah, a few weeks ago."

A few weeks ago, when they both took two whole vacation days, and didn't leave his apartment. Or wear anything more than underwear. Most of the time.

"Thanks." He nodded, and she stepped closer, reaching out to touch his arm. "I'll be okay, Danny." His tears sprung suddenly, behind the delicate lenses balanced on the bridge of his nose. She tightened her grip, trying to reassure him, surprised when she saw a rare emotion flash across his face mixed in with the want and the love that she normally saw.

Fear.

He was afraid of breaking her.

He needed her to need him. To tell him that she still loved him; that she was going to lean on him for support. He needed her to tell him what she needed, what he could do. Standing in the bathroom looking at each other wasn't going to ease the pain out of her muscles. His heart shattered as he watched her lip tremble slightly, but she broke the silence just the same.

"Can you..." She trailed off, as if still thinking about whatever she was going to ask him.

"What?"

"Can you kiss me?" She sounded shy, awkward. Like they were in the sixth grade. "I just…I just need to remember what you feel like." The fear of hurting her, she could see, hadn't ebbed, and she stepped into his cautious embrace gingerly, resting her forehead against the crook of his neck. Carefully, he laid an arm around her back, holding her gently, snaking a hand along her jaw and into her hair, pulling her lips to his ever so delicately. He kissed her thoroughly, taking care not to ask permission, not to be forward, barely deepening, only when she let him in.

This was the end, he mused, of their streak of slam-you-up-against-the-wall rougher brand of sexual escapades, but that didn't matter. He was just glad it wasn't the end of them altogether. He'd never survive without her. Silently he prayed thanks that she was here with him, instead of on Sid's table.

He broke away from her the instant he felt her hesitate, even though she was just taking a breath. She laid her cheek against his collarbone, grasping at the front of his shirt. Carefully, he wrapped both arms around her, holding her, hoping she would find the comfort he was trying to give. He loosened his grip on her when she shifted, blinking away tears as she stepped back, running a hand along his unshaven jaw. He recognized what she was doing instantly. They were forensics experts. They thrived on tangibility.

She was memorizing the feel of his skin.

The intimacy of this moment between them shook him, and he kissed her fingers as they passed over his lips. He shivered, despite the elevated temperature of the bathroom, due to the bathwater, cooling in the tub. He kissed her cheek, and offered her a weak smile.

"Get in the tub before it gets cold, yeah?" She nodded, and maneuvered past him, to the tub. He took in her posture, reading her uneasiness. She'd need something comforting for when the water cooled off completely. He shoved his hands in his pockets, willing himself not to watch, not to see the bruising along her shoulders as her fingers started to slide her shirt from her shoulders. "I'll get you some sweats." He didn't wait for her to answer, knowing she'd want privacy to come to terms with the marks on her skin, as well as the ones on her soul.

He stepped into his bedroom, avoiding the photographs on the dresser, focusing on the contents of his underwear drawer, where he had stashed a pair of her panties the last time he had done laundry. Tossing the plain cotton Hanes onto the top of the dresser, he jiggled open a drawer of old clothes from college, and the academy. He rummaged through, searching for the practice jersey she always stole, feeling around for the worn cotton. Finding what he was looking for, he folded it neatly and laid it on top of her underwear.

Moving to the next drawer, he stopped just short of opening it fully, leaning against the dresser, his tears finally catching up to him fully. He pulled his glasses from his features, tossing them on top of the faded t-shirt, wiping his eyes, and muffling his sobs into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Normally he'd struggle with his tears, even when he was the only person in the room; men from Staten Island only cried when they buried their mothers, and even then, it was a tickle of a tear. He'd had enough with holding up appearances, and with Lindsay in the next room, he could cry his tears here, and save the strength in his shoulder for when she needed to lean on it.

There, lying in a disorderly jumble beside an old pair of Academy sweatpants and his favorite pair of college varsity running shorts lay a pair of Lindsay's yoga pants, and a tank top. She had gone home to her apartment to have a shower and change out of her work clothes. She hadn't even needed to go home at all.

It was his fault. He should have remembered her clothes were here. He should have told her not to bother going to her place. He should have told her just to come home with him. Oh God. He grabbed his Academy sweats, tossing them into the pile of clothes for Lindsay, shoving her things into the back of the drawer. He slammed it shut in frustration, jumping as the noise startled him, instantly feeling guilty; she had probably heard it as well. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her, especially after the horrendous, traumatic evening she had just endured. He moved to the middle of the room, more than an arms reach away from anything that would make a noise if it fell, and crouched on the floor, running his hands through his hair, desperately trying to relocate his composure. Count to twenty, his father had always said.

_Uno, due, tre, quattro._ Danny rubbed at his eyes, willing the tears to stop. He inhaled deeply, slowly. _Cinque, sei, sette, otto._ He let it out, blowing evenly through his teeth, making a low whistling sound. _Nove, dieci, undici._ He stood again, running a hand over his features, slowly regaining composure. By the time he counted to seventeen he was ready to check on Lindsay. His father, for all they disagreed on, had a good system, with the counting thing. It always made him feel better. He reached into his closet and found her a faded hoodie, the cotton worn soft and warm.

Everything was going to be okay. He was going to make it better. She needed him to give her normalcy, tell her that he loved her. He could do that. Danny collected the small pile of clothes, slid his glasses back onto his nose, and made his way back down the hallway, compassion and devotion quickly replacing devastation on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

His tub was an old fashioned one, with a rounded bottom and four elegantly sculpted feet. It had come with the apartment, he assumed every unit had one; the building was last refurnished during the Eisenhower administration. He didn't fully appreciate the antiquarian feel of his building, his apartment, however, until Lindsay had come into this part of his life. There was something about the way her wavy curls tumbled over the curved lip of the tub that made him love her so much more.

Now was no exception. Even with the trauma of the last twelve hours, taking in the sight of the wisps of curls falling out of her loose, messily assembled knot at the back of her head made his breath hitch. Her eyes had been closed, but she opened them slowly when she heard him reenter, turning her head to watch him place the pile of warm, comfortable clothing on the counter by the sink. He turned to her, smiling kindly, and sat on the toilet seat, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"Hey." She sounded better already, more relaxed.

"Hey yourself. How are you feeling?"

"Better. Thank you." She sat up slowly, sloshing the water slightly, hugging her knees to her chest.

"I rummaged around. Baseball tee shirt, Academy sweats." She smiled at this, and he resisted the urge to climb in there and kiss her senseless as she ran a wet hand through her hair, pushing a lock out of her face.

"My favorite." She sounded hoarse, tired, broken. In the living room, his landline rang shrilly, catching their attention.

"I better get that." He rose, taking a step forward and bending, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips lightly. She nodded, resting her head on her knees, watching his retreating form as he stepped back out of the bathroom. Shivering, she realized she had let the water go cold. She stood, reaching for a towel, carefully stepping out of the tub. From where she stood in Danny's bathroom, toweling herself off and dressing, she could hear the comforting sounds of his voice, talking animatedly on the phone. What he was saying, she couldn't make out. She didn't try. It was probably Mac or Stella, checking in with him, or, hopefully, Special Victims with a lead.

She avoided meeting her image on the clouded mirror on the wall, not wanting to know the extent of the bruising on the side of her face that her attacker had palmed so heavily. Instead, she pulled the drawstring of Danny's sweatpants tight around her waist, and worked her arms through his baseball t-shirt first, and then his hoodie, pushing the sleeves up. She was swimming in his clothes; she always did. Danny Messer wasn't a very large man, but she was almost obscenely petite. She stood in the bathroom for a minute, collecting herself, breathing in the scents she associated with him. His laundry detergent, his soap, his shampoo, a trace of the cologne that sat on top of his dresser, hardly ever used. He invaded her senses, and she breathed deeply, really relaxing for the first time. This was what she needed the most. Him. Leaning over back into the tub, she reached in and pulled the stopper out, watching as the water drained into a swirl before coming to stand in the doorway of the bathroom, fixing her gaze on her boyfriend, sitting dejectedly on his couch, rubbing his eyes with one hand, holding the phone to his ear with the other.

She sauntered slowly down the hall towards him, chewing absently on the cuff of the sweatshirt, watching him end his conversation, and toss the cordless phone into the armchair across the room.

"Who was it?" She asked quietly, and he offered her a weary smile before standing, and speaking.

"Mac. He, ah, wanted to know how you were holding up." Danny stood and made his way to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water and handing it to her. "He and Stella processed your place and the hallway. Everything's running through the system." She nodded, becoming starkly disinterested in anything having to do with anything about what happened between work and Danny's apartment. She'd like to just forget that the rest of the world existed, at least for right now. The sun was rising brightly, filtering in through the windows in the living room. She frowned, wishing it wasn't already tomorrow. "We'll get him, Linds." There was something final, absolute, in his voice, and she nodded tersely.

"I know." They stood there awkwardly for a moment, and Lindsay sighed, finally feeling safe. And tired. She raised her gaze to Danny, who didn't look much better. She frowned at the rising sun, bleeding yellow light into the apartment. All she really wanted to do was go to sleep, she was more than ready for today to be over. He watched her carefully, glancing around in exhaustion. She'd been through so much, getting her into bed and shutting out the rest of humanity seemed like the best course of action.

"C'mon, I got a pillow with your name on it." He held out his hand to her, and she took it, leaning against him as she childishly rubbed at her eyes, letting him lead her to his bedroom. He pulled back the covers, helping her ease down into them, settling the blankets around her, trying not to jostle her aching body. His attention was completely focused on making her comfortable, smoothing out the comforter over her curves, checking that her injuries would not be agitated. His gaze swept over her body carefully, but he missed the faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth until she reached out, and touched his arm.

"Thank you." Her voice was soft, low, raspy, and it broke his heart. He nodded, leaning down to press a loving, compassionate kiss to her lips, sighing with relief as she kissed him back, gently.

They were going to be okay.

He made to stand, to leave and call Special Victims, demand an update, but her eyes glistened dully with tears, and her fingers curled around his.

"They'll call when they have something, Danny." He nodded. Of course they would. He was a detective, he knew these things. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.

"Sorry, I know. I just… I wish there was something I could do." He met her gaze with a weak smile. He felt so helpless. He wanted to fix it for her, hunt down the perp, lock him away. Make the world safe for her again. The half of him that was a police officer was growing restless with the silence of his cell phone. He sat on the edge of the bed, near her hip, when she shifted over a few inches, taking her hand in his.

"Can you stay here? So I can sleep?" The uncertainty in her voice reminded him of a little girl, scared of the monsters under her bed. He bit his lip, nodding, and leaned over, brushing a stray curl out of her eyes.

"Yeah, I can do that." He kicked off his shoes, and climbed cautiously over her, slipping under the covers beside her, on a space of empty mattress. After a few moments, she rolled over slowly onto her right side, alleviating the pressure on her broken ribs on her left side. Danny lay on his back, unable to concentrate on sleep, despite the warm, comforts of his bed, and the slow, even breathing of his girlfriend. She reached out, laying a hand of fingers around his upper arm, seeking out comfort in his presence.

"I love you." He spoke softly, staring at the ceiling, not surprised when she didn't answer. He glanced to her sleeping form beside him, pleased that she had fallen asleep. Fitfully, but it was better than nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

Guest starring Det. Elliot Stabler of the Special Victims Unit, New York City. _(I'm not bothering to state the obvious, as far as disclaimers, etc.)_

………

Lindsay closed her eyes, the feel of Danny's bicep soothing her anxiety. He was here, beside her. He would protect her. She tried to even out her breathing, making it appear as if she was asleep, so that he would drift off. He needed rest. She waited for the muscles in his arm to relax under her fingers before she opened her eyes again. She took in the sight before her, the sleeping man silhouetted by the leakings of the early morning light. She reached up, inwardly groaning as her ribs protested her twisting motion, and carefully removed his glasses from the bridge of his nose. She lay flat on her back, extending her arm cautiously, and placing them on the bedside table, then rolled back over to her original position carefully.

Hours later, Danny was jolted back into consciousness by the shrill ringing of his cell phone, in the living room. He blinked, momentarily confused at the blurry shapes before him.

Glasses.

Where were they?

The shill ringing continued, piercing unceremoniously through his bedroom, making Lindsay stir gently beside him. He stumbled out of bed, stepping gingerly around in the dark, making his way to the hallway, quietly closing the bedroom door behind him, taking the precaution not to wake his sleeping girlfriend. He ran a hand through his short hair, rubbing at his eye as he snatched up the offending object and flipped it open.

"Messer."

"We got him." The gruff timbre of the detective that had taken Lindsay's statement at the hospital hit his ears, bringing relief. Stabler? That might have been it. He couldn't really remember. "DNA from the rape kit was a match in CODIS-"

"What were his priors?" Danny bit his lip, attempting to keep his voice from cracking.

"Proud owner of three attempted rapes, and an assault with a deadly weapon." Danny whistled, the need to punch something starting to show in his features. On the other end of the line, Det. Stabler continued. "We worked off the descriptions Det. Monroe recalled at the hospital, traced it back to an apartment in Jersey, just over the bridge. Found him watching Jeopardy, like he thought we'd never track him down. Stupid fuck." Danny found comfort, almost, in the other man's uncharacteristic distaste for the suspect. At least he wasn't alone in loathing humankind.

"D'you need Lindsay to ID him?"

"Yeah. We're bringing him down for a line up. Can you bring Det. Monroe to the one-six in about an hour?"

"Sure." Danny sighed, rubbing his eyes again. "Thank you for keeping me in the loop, Detective."

"One of our own and all that. I'd want the same if it was my partner."

"I'll bring her down."

"Thanks." Danny flipped shut his phone, tossing it back onto the couch before retreating back down the hallway, ducking into the bedroom, frowning at the prospect of having to rouse the weary woman in his bed from her fitful sleep. He knelt beside her, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes, leaning up to press a feather light kiss to her forehead. She stirred slowly, reaching out and grabbing his fingers.

"Linds." She startled awake, flinching only just, but relaxed when Danny's familiar features came into view. "Hey."

"Hey. Sorry." She sat up, pushing her curls out of her face, and rubbing her eyes. "Is there a lead?"

"Special Victims just called. They want you to come down to look at a line up."

"They have someone in custody? Already?" She cocked an eyebrow at him, gingerly shifting, moving the covers back, and easing out of bed.

"Yeah. Your forensic eye sped up the chase. Careful, Linds." His tone was concerned, and he held out a hand, steadying her as she stood slowly. He ignored the exasperated look she threw him, but judging by the manner in which she leaned on him for support, his help, however annoying or overbearing it may be, was needed. She frowned, pushing away his hands once she got a hold of her balance, and trudged through the hallway, leaving him no choice but to follow her, grabbing his jacket and his keys, a weary eye watching her footfalls, prepared to catch her if she stumbled. He followed her to his truck, trying not to let on the devastation that was suffocating his heart as he watched her ease herself into the front seat. He leaned against the frame of the rig, frowning again as she winced, easing the seatbelt over her lap. She reached up, touching his jaw, making the tension in his features relax only just, catching his attention.

"I'm not going to break, Dan." He smiled, the reddish tint of embarrassment rising to his cheeks at the sound of her affectionate coin of his name. He was being overly protective, and she was probably starting to get irritated with his hovering. The urge to protect her from every atom in the city was overwhelming him, and he couldn't help himself. He had failed her once before, he wasn't going to fail her ever again. God help the men who even looked at her.

"I know. I'm sorry. I just-" His voice faltered, and he pressed a kiss to her temple, not wanting to finish his thought.

"It's okay." She sounded small, and he bit his lip, bedding down the tears that had started to well in his eyes. "Thank you." He leaned against her forehead, and she pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, trying to smile as she pulled away. "The station?" There was a hint of a smirk that graced her features as he remembered where exactly it was they were going.

"Right, right." He inhaled sharply, pulling himself back together, crossing in from of the truck and sliding in beside her, taking the wheel. He paused, his fingers on the keys in the ignition, ready to flick the engine on, but ready to retract, and abandon the whole plan. He opened his mouth to lay out her choices, go, or stay, but she pushed a stray curl out of her face, and turned to face him, the fire shining dully in her eyes.

"All you have to do is stand there. I'm the one who has to ID." He flicked on the engine, trying to ignore the acid in her tone. She was upset. He knew that. She had no other outlet for her frustration than him. Which is what she did, the entire ride to the one-six. He pulled out on the street, falling into line with the crawling city traffic, listening to her grumble about the city, and his driving, and dirt and diesel fumes. Normally, he'd dish it back, defend his somewhat questionable driving skills; call her a hick.

He said nothing.

She was fuming, really, upset that she was unable to defend herself, unable to use her police training. Unable to fight off the sweaty, clammy weight that had pinned her to the floor. He recognized how disappointed she was in herself, how disappointed she was in the city. He tried to shake it off, tried to stop listening to her. He just hoped this wouldn't scare her away. Hoped she wouldn't put in a transfer back to Montana. Fleetingly he wondered, if that was the case, whether or not he would ever warm to wheat fields. He'd follow her there, if that was where she needed to go.

Stand there. Yeah, that was what he had to do. Stand there and watch the man who treated his beautiful, wonderful, amazing girlfriend like the scud on the bottom of his shoe. Do nothing. Just stand there.

Danny shoved his hands in his pockets, watching her chew on the cuff of the sleeve of his favorite sweatshirt, tugging at the strings of the hood absently as they greeted Det. Stabler. The tense smile he gave Danny as he shook his hand warmed to a softer brand as he turned to greet Lindsay, but she would have none of it. She shrugged off his touch, but smiled apologetically at him, her features hardening to reflect her desired state of mind. She fooled everyone but him.

"Detective Monroe, if you'll follow me-" Stabler started, offering his hand to lead her to the window side of the interrogation room. She regarded it with an uneasy eye, and he watched her gaze sweep over the other man's tattoo. Marine. She frowned, unsure, and Danny slid an arm around her waist, and she sighed, finding her voice.

"Lindsay." She tried to smile. "My name's Lindsay." The older detective nodded, offering her a gentle smile that put her to ease. Danny felt the tension leave her shoulders only just, and he slipping his arm from her waist, kneading her shoulder softly for a moment, and letting her step out their contact. Usually, the victim saw the line up with just the detectives assigned to their case. He wasn't entirely sure he was allowed in, regardless of his badge. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to see this guy, he wasn't sure he could control his rage. Passivity had never been his strong point.

She followed Stabler for a few feet, wrapping her arms around herself, walking gingerly through the precinct, thankful that it wasn't the one that held her desk. He motioned her through a doorway and down a corridor, and she tried not to flinch as he placed his fingertips along the small of her back. It wasn't his fault she was skittish, and his kindly smile assured her that he had her best interests at heart. The ink along the inside of his arm assured her that he had the discipline and the control to protect her from the heavy sweaty mass of testosterone, even if he couldn't see her, on the other side of the glass. The dull shine of his wedding ring put her at ease as well. He was probably a sensible, levelheaded man. Committed to his wife, she could assume. Committed to his job. To her safety.

Was he, though? Really? She didn't know him from a hole in the wall. Was he a dirty cop? Would he feed her information to that sweaty mass of thick fingers? Would he congratulate him on nailing a cop? What did he think of her? How did she know he wasn't going to slam her against the wall, she was hardly in the state of mind to protest. Locked in a room with a strange man was not where she wanted to be. Cop or no.

She had to stop.

"No." Lindsay stopped short in the hallway, suddenly coming out of her passivity, glancing around for Danny. "I-"

"He can't see you, Lindsay. He won't hurt you." She cringed at his plastic wrap cookie cutter soothing words. She wasn't an idiot. She knew how a fucking interrogation room window worked. She was a cop. She sat at those cold metal tables with dangerous men every day. She wasn't some frail civilian. She'd been though the most rigorous academy in the great state of Montana. He was treating her like a victim. He held his hand out to her, holding the door of the dark little room open, his wedding band clinking metallically against the steel of the door, his fingers inviting her to step inside, the worn Marine insignia elegantly swirling on his forearm like the Dark Mark. Suddenly she wished she hadn't read Harry Potter.

"I just-" She paused, trying to explain herself.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, we only want to help you. You don't even have to speak-" He was placating her. She lost it.

"I know how this works. I'm not a civilian." The acidity in her voice startled him, and he muttered an apology. She took a step toward him instinctively, in a half confrontation. "Don't treat me like a victim. Like I don't know what's going on. Like I've never been in a precinct before." His expression softened a bit more, and he pursed his lips, shifting his weight, waiting for her to enter the room.

"Fine. You know the drill." His timbre was soothing, but it didn't win her over completely. Sensing her hesitation was born out of something other than her reluctance to see her attacker in the light, he nodded, closing the door. "I think your partner would probably want to be in on this." He brushed past her, offering her a flash of a reassuring smile. She was thankful she didn't have to explain her abrupt distrust in any man who wasn't Danny Messer.

"Messer." She heard Detective Stabler call out to Danny, leaning out of the doorjamb of the hallway to whisper directions to him, keeping her out of earshot. She heard him mumble incoherently, and she relaxed as heard him respond to instruction.

"Yeah. Okay." Then. "Sure. Alright. Thank you." His accent was heavy, words floating down the hallway leaving puddles of Staten Island in their wake, and it made her smile. He rounded the corner, following Stabler, and she waited for him by the door. Detective Stabler slipped into the observation room, leaving the two of them in the corridor. Danny threw her an amused grin, pulling her into a gentle hug, pressing a kiss to her hair before lowering his voice to a whisper.

"It's okay. In and out. Then home." Her hesitation startled him, and his brow crinkled into concern, and he pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. "What, Linds?"

"I'm sorry." She never wanted to put him through this, and now she had gotten him a front row seat. He shook his head, dropping a kiss to her lips lightly.

"Don't be. I got that jarhead vibe as well. I wouldn't go into a dark room with him either." His whispers made her smile, and she nodded, letting him lead her into the observation room. She glanced around, embarrassed, and Elliot Stabler nodded his understanding, flicking on the light to reveal seven slightly overweight, slightly sweaty, poorly dressed men, with varying degrees of receding hairlines, paced by a balding, older man with a loathsome glare and a weary posture, whom she vaguely recognized from the NYPD banquet a few months back. Captain something or other.

She scanned the line, the tension in her shoulders returning. Elliot Stabler frowned, watching the pair of detectives before him, rather than the line of fat ugly guys. It was clear to him that Monroe was not comfortable with unfamiliar men, a trait, he assumed, she had picked up in the last twenty-four hours. Looking at her now, he could see the fractured frame of a confident, determined cop. He watched her eyes scan the line determinedly, stopping short, and widening.

"Can. Can they, uh. Can they lift up their shirts?" She cringed as she said it, and he nodded, turning to the communicator and speaking into it. He could see Detective Messer out of the corner of his eye, desperately trying to remain in control over what Elliot could see as the incessant urge to hit anything that wasn't the woman standing beside him. He had heard of this guy- something about a brother who was involved with a gang on Staten Island. He had to give the guy credit though, if someone had raped his partner, he'd Lindsay's soft voice broke his thoughts.

"Number four."

"Are you certain?" He asked on reflex, cringing as she shot him. "Sorry."

"Number four." There was finality in her voice that he admired; most victims didn't answer so quickly, or so decidedly. Her features hardened to her cop-face, but behind her, Det. Messer was in pieces. "What's his name?" She sounded hard, too, like a detective, and it startled him. She steadied herself, standing firmly, turning to him expectantly. "We don't normally-"

"Don't placate me, Detective. I've got a badge, too."

"Linds." Danny's soft voice distracted her, and Elliot watched the pain on his face turn into concern as she shifted her gaze to meet his. "Relax. No one's saying you're not a good cop." Elliot cocked his eyebrow at the pair, quite sure that had he said it, he'd be filing for disability. The younger man put a hand up, stopping her, continuing. "Let them help you. _Please_. Don't fight the system." It was the sound of a broken man. He'd been struggling with this since the moment he'd answered his cell phone, and it had begun to show.

"Name's Judd Harper. DNA was in the system for a few priors. Three attempted rapes and a assault with a deadly weapon." Stabler crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the far wall, watching as the six innocent men filed out of the interrogation room, and Cragen directed Harper into a seat. "He was a pretty easy target. Actually lived at the last known address."

"I was the easy target-"

"I remember him." Danny's soft words interrupted Lindsay, and both she and Stabler turned to face him, confused. "His wife. Kendra. Floater in the Hudson a few years back. Swept up in the fisherman's net, on its way out to sea- oh God." Stabler watched the younger detective try to stifle his horror, turning his gaze from his girlfriend to the man in the interrogation room.

"_What_, Dan." She stepped in front of him, blocking his view of her attacker.

"It's my fault."


	7. Chapter 7

"I remember him."

"_You got somewhere to be, Mr. Harper?" Danny Messer frowned at the older man, fidgeting in the Spartan metal chair. "Something more important to you than your wife?" Danny threw the case file down on the sleek table top, startling his suspect. "You're not tellin' me the truth, and you're wasting my time."_

_"I'm runnin' outta ways to tell you I didn't do it, smartass." Danny rolled his eyes, flipping the chair on his side of the table around, and straddling the back, fixing Judd Harper with a deadly stare._

_"You don't seem to broken up about her floatin' down the Hudson. If that was my wife I'd be doubled over with grief." He plucked a coroner's photo out of the file, and slid it across the table, his gaze remaining even. "Course, if I put her there, I'd feel a bit differently."_

_"You New York cops think you know everything-" Danny glanced at the mirror quickly before returning his attention to the pudgy, balding sloth of a man before him, suddenly feeling pleased as he noticed the telltale signs of perspiration due to stress, his labored breathing turned decidedly wheezy. _

_This bastard was going to crack._

_"Your wife Kendra was killed three days before her body was dumped. In the Hudson. You remember." Danny ignored Harper's scoff, and cut him off, continuing. "Lemme lay it out for you, Mr. Harper. Your wife came home a little late from work last week, workin' a double, exhausted because she's been payin' the bills since last May. She's tired, overworked. And she comes home to you, and your unsatisfied sex drive." Danny leaned back casually in his chair, unfazed by the color seeping up on Judd Harper's features, watching passively as the man before him turned a shade of purple. "The 'script for Cialis was filled two weeks ago. There was only one pill left in the bottle." Danny leaned forward, fixing the man with a steady gaze. "That's the stuff that gives you 36 hours, right? 36 not enough? Tell me what happened, Judd." Danny slammed his fist on the table, making the paperwork jump. "Otherwise your rap sheet does the talking, and three incidents of domestic abuse and a matching three attempted rape charge don't sing very pretty tunes. Especially with the assault charge on top of that."_

_"That was years ago."_

_"When was the last time you had sexual relations with your wife, Mr. Harper?"_

_"That's got nothing to do with this."_

_"I beg to differ. Answer the question."_

_"Day before she disappeared."_

_"You mean the day before you slit her throat and threw her in the Hudson with barbell weights tied to her ankles."_

_"I loved my wife. I had sex with her, but I didn't kill her."_

_"And."_

_"And I might have taken too many pills."_

_"You think?"_

_"You sayin' I raped my wife, Detective?"_

_"I'm just tryin' to sort this all out."_

_"The hell you are." Harper slammed his fists on the table, pushing the metal chair away as he stood, looming over the edge. _

_"What happened? You like it a little too rough? She say no? You're a big guy. You coulda taken her. And your record isn't exactly sparkling. Plead guilty, the DA might offer a deal." Danny watched as the older man snapped, anger and grief and devastation ripping and contorting his pudgy features, turning his ears a violet shade of red, making the vein in his forehead pronounced. _

_"D'you think I'm okay with my wife being raped? Murdered?" Harper's voice played at the fine edge that separated hysteria and rage, teetering dangerously._

_"I think you got a rap sheet that details something to that effect." Danny cocked an eyebrow at the man, remaining complacent in his seat. The guy was guilty of a number of things, but there was no forensic evidence to convict him by. _

_"I want a lawyer." Harper stood, pacing haughtily for a moment, flexing his fingers into thick, meaty, white fists. "No. You know what? How would you feel, if it was _your_ wife_. Your_ girlfriend. Have the police down _your_ throat. Your tune will change, Detective, that I can assure you." _

_Danny rolled his eyes, standing and swinging his leg around, and stepping away from the chair, gathering up the case file. He was not going to feel sympathetic to a guilty man, regardless of lack of evidence. The man was sweating, panting, having trouble containing his temper, had become easily startled. Jumpy. All psychological signs of a guilt-riddled conscious. _

_And no evidence._

_Fuck. _

_Danny swung open the interrogation room door, stepping out into the hallway of the precinct, slamming the door behind him abruptly. He cringed as he heard the determined click of heels on the tile as Aiden Burn rounded the corner from the side room sharply, promptly shoving him, taking the file and smacking him on the back of the head._

"_Good job, Messer. Threaten the suspect. Nice. Never mind that we have no evidence to falsify his story." She frowned at him, shifting her weight to one foot. "Quit jumping the forensics, Danny. If he's guilty, we'll nail him. Relax."_

Fuck.

That was the single though pervading Detective Eliot Stabler's mind as he watched realization dawn over the younger man's features, the hard in the blue of his eyes melting as they widened, sheer panic flashing over his face briefly, like the changeover in a movie reel.

"His wife. Kendra. Floater in the Hudson a few years back. Swept up in the fisherman's net, on its way out to sea- oh God."

Fuck.

"_What,_ Dan."

Fuck.

"It's my fault."

Fuck.

"We're gong to need the case file, and the other detectives on the case." Eliot cleared his throat, his gaze moving steadily from one detective to the other. She had shifted again, into a hardened professional shell, crossing her arms defeatedly over her chest, biting her lip, and suspected it was taking all her efforts to not lash out angrily at her partner. The panic was back in his eyes, shining dully behind what would have been tears, had he not been dripping Staten Island.

"Who worked the case with you Danny?" She stepped closer, fixing him with a professional stare, but reaching out, running he hand through his hair in an almost affectionate manner that Stabler recognized as comforting encouragement. For a fleeting moment, he wondered who was hurting more, Det. Monroe or her partner. The younger man bit his lip, and pulled out his cell phone, speaking as he dialed a number. Eliot tapped on the glass, letting his captain know to come in.

"Aiden. Me and Aiden." Danny flashed Lindsay a pained expression, the content of his heart shattering into pieces behind his delicate frames before his attention was caught halfway by the voice on the other end of the line, his gaze sifting through hers, searching for a place to put his apology. "Mac. I'm lookin' for an unsolved from 2002, floater in a fisherman's net, vic's name was Kendra, yeah." He chewed on his lip, his hand slipping to hers and grasping tightly as he listened to his boss. "Harper, yeah." There was a pause, and he rolled his eyes. "Aiden. I know. Thanks, yeah, okay." He tried again to reach for Lindsay, but she shrugged off his touch, and stepped out of his reach, turning back to Det. Stabler.

"Mac Taylor will bring the file, there has to be something we can hold Harper on until we have time to sift through the testimony again." She sounded crisp, turning away from him and addressing the other detective in a professional voice, setting her jaw in a rigid manner that demanded police work. He dropped his phone back in his pocket, shaking the lurch of tears back, and fixing his gaze past Lindsay's wild, unruly waves to the overweight, balding monster sitting by himself at the dull metal table in the center of the interrogation room.

"We should wait until the file arrives and we get a chance to review the specifics of the case before we question him. Messer, if you could fill my team in on what you remember-"

"Lemme give it a try. We got a history." Lindsay wiped at her eyes, frightened by the flash of feral determination in his features. She had never seen this in him before, but she'd be lying if she hadn't suspected it was a facet of who he was. She just wasn't sure if it was the Italian or the Staten Island that had made him so protective. Either way she was thankful. The Marine detective started to protest, but Danny leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple gently before slipping out the door, ignoring the Special Victims guys complete, and reappearing moments later, quietly opening the door to the interrogation room, and clicking it shut behind him again.


	8. Chapter 8

"Long time no see, Mr. Harper." Lindsay inhaled a shaky breath, listening to the easy slur of his accent, thickening slightly, Danny Messer sliding his frame into the vacant chair, his back to the mirror. Judd Harper recognized the younger detective instantly, groaning and sitting back in his chair.

"I thought you was a science guy."

"I'm a cop too. Surprise, I multitask." Danny's deadpan made the older man laugh uncomfortably.

"We're a ways away from your science kit, Detective."

"I don't need it. I got an eyewitness account."

"Of what? That I was sittin' in my chair in Jersey, watchin' the 11 o'clock news?"

"I got a rape victim who ID'ed you."

"I look like alotta guys, Messer. Coulda been a mistake. You remember mistakes. You made one when you tried to pin a murder on me." Harper cocked an eyebrow at the younger detective, fidgeting only just in his seat.

"Well this time I got you. And I ain't lettin' go." Danny took a deep breath, splaying his fingers out on the surface of the table. "Why'd you do it?" He spoke quietly, willing himself not to think about how heavy his excessive weight must have been on Lindsay's delicate frame. There was an element of desperation in the falter in his voice, and behind the glass, Lindsay cringed. He was losing his professionalism quickly, and she opened her mouth to alert the detective beside her, but Danny's sudden movements on the other side of the glass startled her immobile.

"Why?" At Harper's blank stare, Danny stood, making the chair fall back as he shoved the table away, making it slam into the door. "Why _Lindsay?"_ Danny grabbed the front of Judd Harper's dirty shirt, still reeking of sweat and pheromones. Lindsay choked back a sob as Eliot Stabler brushed past her, turning away as Danny pulled her attacker from his chair, and backing him up against a wall.

She'd never seen him this violent, and she closed her eyes as she heard his fist connect with Judd Harper's jaw over the intercom. He scared her, more than anything, and the sudden shift in his demeanor broke her heart. It had been a bad idea to let him into the interrogation room, but she hadn't been in the frame of mind to stop him. And the detectives at the one-six knew nothing of his emotional temper born out of years of seeking justice and only mostly finding it.

She'd only heard rumors of the vehement, aggressive outbursts of his first few years on the force. She pushed them from her mind, dismissing them as gossip, had convinced herself that the gentle, attentive, affectionate side of him was real. Glancing through the blurs of her tears, she saw that Detective Stabler had separated Danny and Judd Harper, shoving the younger man across the room, with the familiar methodology of a Marine, reminding Lindsay of Mac's block that kept Danny away from DJ Pratt a few months ago. He had loved Aiden, she mused. She could only conclude that he loved her, as well.

It did nothing to comfort her.

And everything to scare her out of her mind.

Ten minutes was what it took for Detective Stabler to restore order in the interrogation room. To restrain Danny, to pacify Harper. He pushed Danny from the room and out into the hall, commandeering the interrogation. Lindsay perched herself on the back table in the viewing room, pressing her back against the wall, and bringing her knees to her chest, rubbing at the tears in her eyes as she heard him open the door, and the shut it again behind him.

"Linds-" Danny's eyes watered freely as he watched her flinch at the sound of his voice, his heart breaking along with the silence. She pushed a stray curl away from her face, refusing to look at him at all. He took a few quiet steps toward her, reaching out to touch her, but she recoiled sharply, wiping tears with the cuff of his tattered sweatshirt, and wrapping her arms tightly around her shins, turning away from him, not bothering to try to gain control over the soft sobs wracking her petite frame. "Lindsay-"

"_Don't touch me."_ The hysteria in the timbre of her voice shattered whatever was left of his heart, and he backed away from her, his lip trembling, the heat of a wave of panic running through his chest. To his right, the door opened, and Mac stepped in, case file in hand, a rigid posture as if he didn't want to interrupt. His favorite detective turned at the sound of his entry, and then away again just as quickly, a familiar expression of shame and remorse glistening in the tears in his eyes. He recognized Danny's restlessness, and the tension in the room was too heavy to be healthy for his shell of a rough country detective curled into a ball. He offered the other man the case file.

"Go over these with Special Victims, be sure to explain the coroner's findings, have them cross reference for MO." Danny inhaled a shaky breath, and nodded, glancing back at his girlfriend, still huddled against the wall, before snatching the file from his hand, and making his way out of the room without a word. Mac turned his attention to Lindsay, frowning at how small and vulnerable she appeared, clad in what he recognized as Danny's clothes, curled up into herself. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and made his way to the edge of the table, leaving at least a foot of space between himself and Lindsay.

"Thanks." Her muffled voice barely made it to his ears, and he nodded, sliding up onto the table, sitting beside her, and casting his gaze out to the activities in the interrogation room.

"Are you alright?" His tone was soft, gentle, and after a few moments, she lifted her head from her arms only just, nodding slowly.

"I'm okay." She sighed, slowly resting the back of her head against the wall, watching Harper squirm under pressure from the Special Victims captain. "He just scared me, is all."

"I'm thinking of putting out a memo to every precinct about Danny." He smirked as she gave him a weak smile, rolling her eyes.

"He meant well." She ran a hand through her hair, chewing distractedly at the cuff of Danny's sweatshirt. "I guess I'm a little on edge. I wasn't anticipating him to be so physical." Mac nodded, thankful that the tension was slowly leaking out of the room as Lindsay started to relax, only just.

"I'll talk to him."

"I could feel his heart break, Mac." Fresh tears dribbled down her cheeks, and he sighed heavily. "But he was so angry. I-I didn't trust him to keep his temper." She took a deep breath, keeping her breathing from becoming erratic. "He really scared me." Her voice was quiet, and he couldn't discern if the color in her cheeks was due to the fluster of her tears or the embarrassment of her vulnerability.

"He's having a rough time, yeah, but he's not the victim, here, Lindsay." There was a long pause of somewhat comfortable silence between them, before Lindsay slid gingerly off the table, wincing as she lowered herself to the floor, offering him a vacant frown.

"I want to go home." She made her way carefully across the room, and leaned her weight against the door, opening it slowly. Mac followed her, nodding curtly.

"Okay." He followed her down the corridor, a concerned expression hanging on his jaw, catching up with her at the doorway to the large precinct room holding a collection of detective's desks, the Special Victims detectives, and Danny Messer, who was leaning over a collection of crime scene photos, explaining some aspect of the older case in a halfway professional, halfway mechanical manner. She glanced across the room at him, trying to detect any form of comfort from the familiar, gentle slope of his shoulders, seeing nothing but defeat and a brand of despondency that cracked her heart.

Mac made his way to Danny's side, catching his attention briefly, and causing the younger man to first step away from the case file and huddle of detectives, and then nod hesitantly, leaning back over the desk to see in the light of the desk lamp. Mac Taylor crossed the room again, placing his hand at the small of Lindsay's back, and leading her out the front of the one-six, and out of Danny's sight.

Danny watched them go, running a hand over his jaw and blinking away a round of tears. He pulled his glasses from his nose, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, his other hand along the leather of his belt.

"You with us, Messer?" Stabler's gruff voice brought him back to the police work at hand, and he nodded, sliding his glasses back onto his face.

"Yeah. I just." He frowned, shifting his weight uneasily. "I love her, you know?"

He wasn't so sure they would survive this, after all.

………

A/N: (These two chapters kind of slid sideways on me… Okay, really slid sideways on me. I didn't even realize it until I was almost done. More to come. Semester is ending soon.) TBC.


	9. Chapter 9

She quietly thanked Mac as he pulled up beside her building, slipping out of the lab truck before he could offer further help, shaking off the sense of dread that hit her as she made her way down her hallway. Lindsay stopped to unlock her door with the spare key her super had given her, along with a rare compassionate expression on his usually gruff features. She slipped inside the cozy little apartment, finally making it home. The door clicked shut firmly behind her, and she slowly fingering the archaic dead bolt as well as the chain lock she had installed a week or so after coming to the city, when she was worried the older lock wouldn't hold. She placed the spare key in the bowl by the door, frowning when she remembered her cell phone was packed away in an evidence vault, and pushed a few stray curls out of her face as she quickly scanned the room, breathing easier when she saw that everything was as she left it.

Relax, Monroe.

She maneuvered gingerly to her tiny kitchen, putting fresh water in the kettle, and switching on the burner. Leaning against the far counter, taking in the sight of the collection of photos adhered to her fridge. There was a print of her favorite photograph of her and Danny, shot by his halfway sleazy, halfway avant-garde college roommate, Mike something or other. She smiled, remembering Danny's uncharacteristic draw to the more wholesome pictures from that shoot, copies of which were hanging in her tiny living room.

Mike asked, shyly, almost, if they'd be up for photos with a higher rating, while the series of photographs he had taken to jumpstart his business were perfect, the grayscale and their contrasting tee shirts creating a flawless effect, he wanted to shoot a few in color. He was teaching a seminar on the human form, and asked Danny if he could 'borrow his muscles,' as it were. Danny had shrugged, offering his friend a smile, and had pulled his tee shirt over his head without a second thought. The photograph on Lindsay's fridge was one of the last taken in the shoot. Lindsay had flopped down on Mike's worn out couch, watching as Danny followed Mike's instructions.

When Mike had taken a minute to switch out the memory card on his camera, and with his friend out of the room, Danny had climbed on top of her, making her laugh, sliding down her body and pulling up the hem of her shirt, placing a loving trail of kisses along her stomach, scratching her skin with the scruff of his goatee. She had protested at first, but he had caught her hand, tangling his fingers in her own, and relaxing against her hips. Neither of them had noticed Mike snapping a few photographs, capturing the sleek definition of Danny's muscles, tanned from the summer months, contrasting with the smooth plain of her not-so-tan stomach, partly exposed from Danny's kisses. The image showed Danny's New Yorker body with the casual definition of relaxed muscles, his fingers holding hers tightly, the faded black of his tattoo matching the faded black of her tee shirt, her legs tangled into his in a familiar manner that squeezed her heart.

The shrill whistle of the kettle drew her out of her thoughts, and she frowned at the photograph, pulling the kettle off the burner and switching off the heat. She poured water into a mug, taking a minute to let the tea bag steep before turning back to the front of the fridge and ripping the photograph down in one fluid motion, crumpling it up and tossing it in the general direction of the trash, missing by a few inches.

The fridge was covered in other photographs, some of her family in Montana, some of her and Danny, a few of Danny and Flack. Scattered New York tourist sights, usually used as a backdrop to some form of a display of affection. She sipped her tea, willing the adrenaline in her body to ebb, studying their smiles in her collection of pictures. They looked like any other serious couple, secrets forgotten, in the business of building a life of content moments and inside jokes.

It made her sick.

She loved him, really, but in every picture she saw not the gentle slope of muscle that protected her as she slept last night, but the definition of strength that shoved the table against the wall in the interrogation room. It was irrational, she knew, somewhere her conscious was reprimanding her, urging her to pick up the phone, call him, tell him they were going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine. But she couldn't bring herself to do it.

She halfway convinced herself that he was of better use for the case, working with the Special Victims detectives. Although, she wasn't sure just how much help they'd need once they read through the transcripts of the interviews. From Harper's reaction to Danny, she could conclude that her attack, her rape, had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with something rash and pretentious that Danny had said when he accused Harper of raping his own wife.

It had never been about her, really. She had just been the pretty girl in Danny's life when Harper had decided to make good on his sinister promise. Danny had only had three serious women in his life. His mother, Aiden, and her. When she had asked Flack about the nature of Danny's relationship with the former CSI, he had laughed, filled her glass with more merlot, and been very clear in the fact that he had been the one sleeping with Aiden, not Danny. Out of the three women in his life, she was the only one who fit the description of Harper's threat. And she came into his life long after the case had been closed. She made her way to the couch, easing into the soft, worn cushions, curling her feet under her, and cradling the mug of tea in her hands, reveling in the quiet of a second floor New York apartment.

Her phone rang, shrilly, piercing through the silence of the apartment, making Lindsay jump. Deciding to let the machine pick it up, she took a sip from the mug, cringing at the metallic timbre of her voice as the machine clicked on.

"_Hi, this is Lindsay Monroe. I'm not around, try my cell phone."_

"Linds." Danny's familiar voice came over the machine, and she turned at the sound of her name, but made no motion to pick up the call. "Lindsay, I just- alright, look, I'm sorry, okay? Let me help you through this, Linds. I love you." She frowned at his tone, increasing in disparity and decreasing in volume, until he was speaking with a hoarse whisper. There was a moment of uneasy silence, and Lindsay took another sip, closing her eyes, willing herself to stop the tears she had been sobbing out all day. When he started to speak again, his tone was wavering on the cusp of professionalism. "Lab results came back from the rape kit Jane processed. Semen was a match to Harper's, so Stabler nailed him to the cross, so to speak. DA's gonna get back to you about all the court stuff." He sighed heavily, and Lindsay ran her hand over her eyes, listening to him cough and clear his throat in what she recognized as his testosterone-driven management technique of his tears in public places.

Fleetingly, she wondered where he was.

Out on the street, Danny shuffled through the fallen leaves on the sidewalk outside her apartment building, leaning against the side of his truck, looking up at the soft light leaking through her living room windows, despite the curtains being drawn. He was fast coming to the conclusion that she wasn't going to answer the phone, and that her machine was going to cut him off soon.

"Listen, Linds, I don't want us to fall to pieces, we can make it, and we can overcome this. I love you. Just, just remember that." He bit his lip; willing her to pick up the phone, talk to him. Frustrated, he snapped shut his cell phone, ending the call. Lindsay's neighbor, Jake Newton, came through the door, grinning broadly as he recognized the other man.

"Hey, Detective Messer! Lindsay lock you out?" Danny turned at the sound of his name, and froze, relaxing when he spotted Jake.

"Yeah. Rough patch." He offered, it was a weak explanation, but it was the truth, however understated it might have been. Jake rolled his eyes, flashing Danny a grin.

"Been there. Sucks. Lemme buzz you in. At least you can grovel where there's heat."

"Thanks man." Jake turned his key, opening the front door, holding it open for Danny.

"Anytime. G'luck."

Upstairs, Lindsay had shut off the lights, intent on going to bed, and had paused beside the phone, on the verge of picking up as the dial tone clicked on, and the message ended. Danny frowned at the staircase, making his way up the stairs slowly, trying to plan out his apology.

He took the stairs softly, tears getting caught in his throat as he made it to the second floor hallway. He shoved his hands in his pockets, closing the distance slowly between himself and her door, leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor instead of knocking. He draped one ankle over the other, pushing the frames of his glasses up on the bridge of his nose as he listened to her check the locks on the other side of the door, most likely going to bed. Either she didn't check the peephole, or she didn't want to speak to him, he concluded, as the second lock on her door slide out and then back into place.

At least she was safe.

That was all he really cared about. Everything else could be fixed. Hopefully. He bit his thumbnail in thought, his eyes flicking to the dark under the door as she turned off the last of the lights. They would have to have one of those serious, teary conversations. He wasn't ready for it.

He was still battling validation of his own feelings. Everything he tried dumped him right back at the fact that someone raped his girlfriend. He's a cop. He thought she was safe. Hell, _she's_ a cop. Sighing, he frowned at the door, making his way back down the stairs, running a hand through his hair, making it spike.

Not wanting to go home, he jogged down the steps, turning east on Lindsay's street instead of the west that would take him to his apartment. There was one place he could go, especially now when he was seeking atonement.

And forgiveness, if only from himself.


End file.
